Milk and Sugar
by lacedwithlilacs
Summary: Q from MI6 is the third and youngest Holmes brother, Sherrinford. Sherrinford can't particularly remember why he takes his tea black, but he figures it must have something to do with his traumatic childhood.


When Sherrinford wakes up and looks at the ceiling, he realizes that this is not his ceiling at all. Instead of the stiff, dull yellow on the ceiling and the brown splotch of water damage in the corner, the ceiling is bright white and clean. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, until the blur in his eyes has faded and he starts to jog his mind. He takes his glasses off of the end table next to him, everything coming into focus before he realizes where he is. Everything quickly begins flooding back to him, last night.

Molly smiles at him, sitting on the opposite side of the bed as she pulls a plain grey, v neck shirt on over her white bra. "How do you take your tea?" she asks as she begins pulling a pair of loose fitting yoga pants on, only a few shades darker than her shirt and the two look both comfortable but classy together. She runs a hand through her strawberry blonde hair, reaching her shoulders during the few times it's free from its ponytail. She looks up at him, her grey eyes awaiting an answer as he runs through millions of possibilities with her in his mind.

Sherrinford forces himself back into reality and shakes his head, "Just plain is fine." She gives him another quick smile as she leaves the room, closing the door behind her. He studies her room after she leaves. He'd only been here a few times, but only long enough to let Molly put on a few last pieces of jewelry or check her make up one more time before they left for the night. Her walls are a light yellow, but this shade looks like spring flowers instead of like thin layers of mustard like his. Her bed sits in the center of the room, the bed frame simple, straight lines of white and a floral print on the comforter with a soft shade of berry pink. On her vanity, pressed up against the wall, are rows of makeup and perfumes, all stacked against the mirror.

Molly comes back into the room with two mugs of tea, both of them tall and white with multicolored spots on them. "Sorry, they're the only mugs I had," she says as she hands him a cup of hot tea, the steam rising steadily from the cup. Molly sits down next to him on the bed, leaning up against the headboard with him and sips her tea.

"You know," Sherrinford says as he blows over the tea and tries to cool it down a bit. He takes small sips until it reaches a more bearable temperature. "I used to take my tea with so much milk and sugar, I doubt it could even have been called tea anymore." He smiles at the memory and looks over at Molly who smiles in return as she takes another sip.

"Why did you stop?"

Sherrinford's smile falls and he tries to remember, but he can't think of the reason why for the life of him. He quickly tries to recover himself, regaining only half of a smile, "I grew up."

—

The next morning, Sherrinford wakes up to his water damaged ceiling and mustard yellow walls. It's Monday, Molly has to work like every other person in London, except for him. Mandated vacation time. The only reason he has to stay home and off of his laptop to check up on the latest at work is because otherwise his vacation time rolls over to the next year. The head of the government's research and development team can't take more than three days of vacation time at once.

He has to stop himself from opening the lid of his laptop the moment that he walks into the small kitchen, now simply a reflex move upon coming out of his bedroom, as natural to him as going to the toilet after he puts the kettle on. He pours himself a cup of tea after he gets out of the bathroom and sits down at the small, two person table, staring absent mindedly at his laptop, the lid still closed and the lack of the computer's hum is loud in his ears.

Sherrinford gets up after his first cup is empty, pouring himself another full glass, though he doesn't fill this to the brim like usual. Instead, he leaves the tea an inch from the rim and digs in the refrigerator until he finds his carton of milk. "I am completely insane," he mutters to himself as he uncaps the carton and begins pouring the milk in, watching as the milk hits the bottom and spreads out from below, counting four seconds until the tea has become a light beige colour. He measures out three full spoonfuls of sugar and stirs the sweetened tea.

"No," he counters himself, fully aware that talking aloud to oneself is not what normal people do, "I passed all of the mental stability tests with flying colors. I am perfectly fine." He takes his first sip of his tea. It tastes nothing like tea anymore to him, instead like milk and sugar with a hint of the tea's aftertaste. Emotions begin flooding to him, longing and nostalgia for a time he doesn't even remember. He can't even picture places or hear sounds or smell anything, only knowing that he wants to go back to that unknown time. He sighs and sets the tea down next to his laptop, in its exact position on the left, the handle turned 45 degrees between the edge of the table and his laptop. "Mentally healthy people remember their childhood," he says to himself as he pulls up Google.

_How to recall memories from childhood_ is his first search. Eventually stretching from searches like _memory recall_ to _traumatic events childhood memories recovery_. He slowly drinks his tea and tries to place where he wants to go back to, but his mind comes up blank, blacked out nostalgia as he gives up on Google. He contemplates breaking into some government files, top secret memory techniques, using his magic, government issued password. "I'm not ready to deal with them if they're that traumatic," he assures himself aloud and closes the browser.

He brings his tea over to the living room and lays back on the couch, placing the now half empty glass on his chest between sips. He stretches his mind as far back as it goes, to when he'd been incredibly little, at most four or five. The boys and their father would drink tea at the family's formal dining table together, a dark mahogany table with matching chairs. Tall elegant backs on the seat, every spindle on the back hand carved and a dark ruby plush cushion on the seat. In any other situation, the room would feel stiff and formal, with all of the dark woods on the floor, table, chairs, paneling on the walls. He doesn't remember much, other than the dark color of the room even with the bright, chandelier light.

"Really father?" Sherlock asked from his seat next to Mr. Holmes. "So much milk and sugar? In both of your and Sherrinford's cups?" Sherlock brought his plain tea to his lips, his right fingers held the handle tightly and the left hand's fingers were pressed properly against the bottom of the cup. Sherlock didn't look at either Mr. Holmes or Sherrinford, instead he used his expert senses to listen as the milk poured into the cup and as the sugar cubes plopped and fell to the bottom.

Mr. Holmes clicked his tongue, smiled, and shook his head back and forth slightly. "Now now Sherlock," he turned towards his twelve year-old son, "No need to be so spiteful. This is a perfectly acceptable way to drink ones' tea." Sherlock scrunched the right side of his face in disgust at being corrected.

Mr. Holmes placed the milk back on the saucer and immediately Sherrinford reached over and put his small hand over his father's much larger hand, "No father! Our tea has to be _exactly_ the same! You put a little bit more milk in mine than yours. I want to be just like you!" Mr. Holmes let out a low laugh and poured a bit more in his own tea. He waited until Sherrinford gave him the okay sign before he put the milk down again. "Okay," Sherrinford said as he took his cup of tea with his left hand, just like his father. He brought his plastic cup to his lips at the same time Mr. Holmes brought his china up and they both took a long sip before they put their cups back down with a loud sigh at the same time. Out of the corner of Sherrinford's eye, he could see as Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head in embarrassment.

—

Sherrinford lets out a sigh, the mug of sweet tea rising and falling on his chest. "No no," he says to himself, "that's not it." His mind quickly lurches forward, up to when Sherrinford had been 13 and living with Mycroft who was already 27 at the time. Between his siblings, Sherrinford had always preferred Mycroft to Sherlock, Mycroft had been a more parental figure as 14 years his senior. Sherlock had simply been that annoying older brother who'd simply acted like he'd been absolutely cursed with a little brother seven years younger than him.

Mycroft's flat had been adequate at the time. He wasn't nearly as high in the government ranks back then and his flat was as humble as his position. It was a two bedroom technically, though Sherrinford's room could have easily been classified as a closet. After the accident, their parents hadn't left Mycroft with enough to get a flat in the middle of London with a larger bedroom for Sherrinford. As Mycroft had told him early on, with the high rate of downtown flats, Sherrinford was lucky not to have to sleep on the living room couch.

They took their tea together in the afternoon once Mycroft had gotten home from his job and after Sherrinford's prep school had gotten out. Their kitchen was small and barely fit their table and four chairs, all of them a cheaply painted yellow color with flakes coming off of the surface. "Wow," Mycroft said as they sat there and drank their tea, Sherrinford attempting to choke down the bitter liquid all while holding a straight face. "Nothing in your tea Sherrin? Why you must be growing up."

Sherrinford jumps back into the present day and places the now empty cup of tea on his coffee table and he knows that a ring will form on the bottom of the cup if he doesn't wash the cup out now, but he can't be bothered to get up yet. "There was a reason I stopped immediately though," Sherrinford crosses his fingers and lays them on top of his chest, watching his fingers rise and fall with his breathing. He begins to shuffle through his memories, taking bits from the pieces he remembers and tries to hone in closer on what must have happened.

Mycroft had said that in the early part of September but the accident happened in late July. His mind flashes, violently to that August, living in the country side with his grandparents, the McQuillens. He's thankful that too many memories don't flood his mind since he's certain with the way that his adult mind has literally forgotten almost everything about that month that it must have been traumatic.

After the bomb in the supermarket, Sherrinford had been temporarily placed with his maternal grandparents despite his protests to Mycroft and Sherlock, both of whom shared similar feelings towards the McQuillens. He remembers this clearly, having been told that until more could be determined through wills and other legal documents that he'd begged Mycroft to try and gain custody of him for the school year so he could attend the same school at least.

There was no escaping Grandfather McQuillen's grasp though, no matter how hard Sherrinford tried to avoid it. Sooner or later, they'd have to spend time together, out of Grandmother McQuillen's request. Grandmother was bearable, usually a little too reserved and motherly for the son of a high ranking government agent, but Grandfather was bad enough to scare Sherrinford away from their house all together.

While Sherrinford and Grandfather drank their tea, Sherrinford tried to be as invisible as possible, even trying to blend into the large cushions of the chair to simply get away from his grandfather. Unlike everywhere else, at his grandparent's house, they drank their tea in large chairs in the formal living room rather than at tables in kitchens or dining rooms. Sherrinford lifted the milk pitcher carefully, his one hand gripped the handle tightly and the other pressed firmly against the front to keep it from potentially hitting the edge of his own tea cup.

Sherrinford watched his Grandfather as he poured the milk into the tea, having made sure that there was only four seconds of worth of milk in his tea. Sherrinford set the milk down carefully, not so much as a ding from the china rose and interrupted the fire's crackles and pops. Sherrinford took the cover off of the sugar and dug out three spoonfuls and poured them into the tea. He put the small sugar's spoon back in the dish and carefully placed the cover to nestle the spoon handle in the lid's indent.

A soft clink rang throughout the room as the lid and spoon collided and Sherrinford tensed up immediately after his mistake. Sherrinford felt his grandfather's eyes wander down from the fire between the two large built in bookshelves in front of them to Sherrinford's cup to tea. Grandfather gruffed and coughed after he'd looked at his grandson's cup and leaned forward towards the small coffee table between them and the fire. "What's all that crap doing in your tea? Is that even tea anymore?"

Sherrinford swallowed hard and tried to keep his tongue silent. He bit his tongue between his teeth and tasted the blood as he attempted to simply keep his mouth shut. His grandfather leaned back in the chair again and crossed his arms over his chest, "That's only how little girls and sissies drink their tea. Real men don't drink that sort of, crap." He obviously held back on the more vulgar alternative.

"My father drinks it that way!" Sherrinford blurted out, unable to hold his tongue for any longer, "He's a real man too!" Immediately, Sherrinford bit down on his tongue again, but it was too late to take anything back.

Grandfather McQuillen stood up sharply, the feet of the chair slid back with a violent screech that hurt Sherrinford's ears. "And look at what happened to him!" Grandmother McQuillen appeared suddenly, as if she had flown out of the kitchen and into the living room before she swooped down to Sherrinford's side. "Made too many enemies being a British spy. The media might say the supermarket bombing was a terrorist, but I say it was a hit man! Took our beautiful daughter with him too, that dirty government man."

Grandmother covered Sherrinford's ears, as if she'd be able to erase the words from his mind. "For god's sake! It's only been a week!" she cried out with a look that both begged and threatened. Grandfather let out a loud huff as he threw his arms up and left the room, his stomped echoed through the house as he climbed to the second story.

Sherrinford got up from the chair, stunned into silence as his Grandmother tried to comfort him, begged him to climb into her lap and let her try to calm him down. He took the cup from the saucer and brought it into the kitchen, poured down the drain and stained the white sink with light beige. "Can I have another cup Grandmum?" Sherrinford asked as he put the cup on the counter after quickly rinsing any remaining milk or sugar out of the cup.

Grandmother McQuillen quickly poured him another cup and they walked back out to the living room. The fire crackled as Sherrinford drank his tea, now a dark shade of black and completely void of any extra substance.

—

Sherrinford rubs the tips of his fingers over his temples and takes his glasses off of his face. He runs his hand through his thick, brown hair and tries to file everything away somewhere. Not exactly for safe keeping, none of the memories are quite happy enough to outweigh everything else that comes with them. He stands up slowly from the couch and twists his torso, cracking his thin back and stretching his awkwardly long fingers and arms. He runs his hand through his hair again and feels the thin layer of grease beginning at his roots.

"I am not mentally stable," Sherrinford says to himself, looking around his flat for nothing in particular, just trying to find himself something to take his mind off of tea. "Not in the least bit and definitely not for a job in the government," he smiles to himself at the joke though he's not quite sure what the punch line is. He pulls his white v neck t-shirt off after searching his apartment and coming up short and heads towards the shower.


End file.
